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hungry?” he says, pointing down Court Street. “Esposito and Sons. Best rice balls in the neighborhood. We can talk about your career prospects on the way back.”
    *   *   *
    Esposito’s is an ode to the if-it-ain’t-broke school of décor, and outside the front is a statue of a grotesque pig wearing a butcher’s apron.
    “Wow,” I say. “Old school.”
    “It’s been here since 1922,” says Vic.
    Everyone in Esposito’s sings out “Vic!” when he comes in.
    “Quite the celebrity,” I murmur, almost to myself.
    “I prefer neighborhood personality,” he cracks back.
    Vic orders four pork rice balls, an Italian sub, and a square of lasagne.
    “You got it, chief,” snaps the guy behind the counter. “Marie’s away, huh? How’s your cholesterol these days?”
    “You breathe a word about this to my sister…”
    I grin to myself, looking at the prepared food lined up behind the glass. This must be Vic’s secret vice.
    The counter guy turns to me. “What about you, Miss Pakistan? You want somethin’?”
    “Miss Pakistan?” I repeat.
    “Sorry. Miss World, is that better?”
    Don’t you just love being singled out for the color of your skin? But he’d probably call me Miss Sweden if I was blond. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
    Counter guy is getting impatient. “C’mon, what’ll it be, sweetie?”
    This is like being in someone’s home and refusing food they prepared just for you. But I haven’t got any money left. Not a dime.
    “Um, no, I’m…”
    “You a friend of Vic’s?”
    “Yes,” I say, at the same moment that Vic says, “Neighbor.”
    “Well, you’re a lucky girl. Vic will look after you. Here you go, sweetie. On the house.”
    Minutes later we’re walking out, a rice ball the size of a grapefruit in my hand.
    “Great place,” I say, taking a bite. “Oh, wow, this is so good!”
    “It’s the best. So, here’s a thing. My nephew Angelo has a restaurant over on Smith. Bartolo’s. My brother started it fifty years ago.”
    “Really?” I say, brightening.
    “He’ll give you a job. It’s a real neighborhood restaurant. People there are good tippers, too. If you walk me up there right now, I’ll introduce you,” he says.
    “Wow, thank you so much!” A waitress! I could be a waitress! My no-manual-labor stance of ten days ago looks pretty stupid right about now.
    “It won’t make you a fortune, but it’s better than sitting on your keister moaning about life. Long as you’re not afraid of a little hard work.”
    “No! I mean yes, I’m not, I mean— Thank you . I’m not afraid of hard work! That would be awesome!”
    We walk slowly up Union Street, passing Rookhaven, toward Smith Street, enjoying the balmy evening.
    “So, how ya settling into the place, anyway?”
    “Um, fine.”
    I’m not sure what he means. I never settle; I just sleep somewhere for a while and then life changes and I sleep somewhere else.
    I gaze up at the Brooklyn brownstones around me, at the trees arching up into the blue sky above our heads. Every house, every stoop, every window, is similar yet unique, with little individual touches from owners past and present. It’s like everyone who’s ever lived here has left their mark.
    “Union Street is so beautiful,” I say. “It feels personal, in a way that most streets never do. Every house is a home.”
    He nods. “It has character. That’s why I never left, even when it was not an area that you’d want to be in, let me tell you.… My parents moved here from a little town called Pozzallo, in Italy, in 1922. A lot of people from Pozzallo came here; they even named a street after us.”
    “No kidding. Your parents moved all the way from Italy?” I say in surprise as we turn right onto Smith and keep walking. “Right here to Carroll Gardens?”
    He grimaces. “Not Carroll Gardens. It’s South Brooklyn, it’s always been South Brooklyn. Not Carroll Gardens, not Cobble Hill, not BoCoCa.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “My